


The Benefits of Bookstores

by lady_pembroke



Series: modern au cinematic universe [1]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF
Genre: Bookstores, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Meet-Cute, jane's character tag is ridiculous, nerds falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 16:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_pembroke/pseuds/lady_pembroke
Summary: How a chance meeting in a bookstore evolved into something else.





	The Benefits of Bookstores

**Author's Note:**

> In this house, we respect George and Jane Boleyn.

Anne called right when George was leaving work. He was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but as the buzzing continued, it became increasingly clear she wouldn't take no for an answer. Sighing, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and picked up as he arrived at the bus stop.

"Are you free on Saturday?" she asked without preamble.

George shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, wishing he'd worn something heavier than a windbreaker. "Depends. Why do you ask?"

"I thought we could go out for lunch! It's been forever. We can, you know, catch up a little. There's a bookstore cafe near my apartment that just opened."

This last sentence was said enticingly, and George groaned. "How dare you tempt me with books."

He could practically see Anne's victorious smile. "Does that mean you'll come?"

It was just as well he didn't have weekend plans. The combination of books, lunch, and time with his sister was too good to pass up. "Obviously."

By the time his bus arrived, he and Anne had made arrangements to meet at one o'clock on Saturday and said their goodbyes.

Saturday found George attempting to follow the directions Anne had given him, which he suspected she'd made deliberately confusing. Admittedly, his mediocre driving skills didn't help, but the honking from the other cars couldn't be _all _his fault. But after several wrong turns, he arrived at the bookstore cafe and found a place to park.

When he climbed out of his car, Anne was waiting for him. She wore a long black peacoat and was tapping away on her phone, seemingly completely absorbed in her task. George hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat.

Anne looked up. "Oh, hey! Good timing; I'm almost done."

George tried to see over her shoulder. "Work?"

"Solitaire," she corrected. Her gaze slid sideways and one of her brows lifted. "My God."

"What?"

Her eyes snapped back to his face. "Jesus, you can't even _park _ straight."

"Oh, ha ha. Can we just go inside?"

The name of the bookstore was in French, but George barely had time to mentally translate it before they stepped in. Rows of bookshelves sprawled out before them, neat little signs and tantalizing displays set up across the aisles, all designed to draw the eye. The cafe section smelled like coffee and bread. He and Anne looked at each other, then split up, with the promise to text when they were ready to eat.

Over the next hour or so, George had to exercise considerable restraint to not buy every book that caught his eye. He forced himself to leave the science fiction section after he'd amassed a collection of ten volumes (and leave most of the books behind), then spent far too long looking at a fantasy novel with very nice cover art of a dragon. He even flipped through a book of sheet music - although he couldn't read any of it - and picked up a poetry collection. He checked the time, then wandered into the historical fiction section on a whim, taking down random books and glancing at them briefly before restoring them to their rightful places. He got so wrapped up in this that he was halfway down one row of shelves before he noticed someone else standing at the end of the aisle.

It was a woman, with long blond hair hanging in loose waves down the back of her white sweater. She was petite - around the same height as Anne - and she too carried a sizable stack of books under one arm. She faced away from him, so he couldn't see her expression, but she appeared to be examining an elaborate book display that looked like it would collapse if you breathed on it wrong.

Putting his latest random book selection back onto the shelf, George headed over to the impractical display for closer inspection. The woman didn't seem to notice him at first, but when he'd been standing there silently for a few seconds, she turned toward him with an apologetic expression.

"Sorry, should I move? Did you want to -"

"Oh, no," George said, perhaps a little too emphatically. In his defense, she was startlingly pretty. Her blond hair framed a heart-shaped face with a straight nose, blue-gray eyes, and impossibly long lashes. Her mouth had a questioning twist to it as she looked him up and down.

She raised a well-shaped eyebrow at him, and George realized he'd been silent for approximately ten seconds too long. "No," he said again, "I'm just contemplating the lack of structural integrity in this design. Feel free to stay where you are."

She laughed, her nose crinkling in a way that shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. "Well, then, contemplate away."

"Thank you."

They resumed their separate examinations of the Leaning Tower of Books. Only now, George was also sneaking looks at her. He tried to be subtle about it, but at one point their eyes met, and one corner of her mouth turned up. She glanced away, brushing a curl of blond hair behind her ear, and George opened his mouth to say something -

"_There _you are!"

George turned. Anne stood at the end of the aisle not ten feet away, carrying a stack of books almost as large as his. Her expression was somewhere between annoyed and amused.

"_Finally_," she said, with an eye roll so impressive George thought someone should've filmed it. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I texted you like five times, why didn't you answer your -" Anne's jaw dropped. "Oh my God. Jane?"

The blond turned too, and her eyes widened. "Anne! Oh my God, hi!"

And before George could blink or ask what the hell was going on, Anne was hugging the blond with the kind of enthusiasm usually associated with best friends and/or blood relations. Just as quickly, they'd released each other and were chatting away, words overlapping so George couldn't make sense of any of it.

He let them fawn over each other for a few moments, then cleared his throat loudly. "Anne, are you going to introduce me?"

"Oh, right." Anne smiled apologetically. "George, this is Jane Parker; we do ballet together at the _Chateau Vert_. Jane, this is my brother, George."

"Hi," said Jane with a small wave and a smile. "Nice to meet you."

She stuck out a hand. George shook it. "Likewise."

Anne looked between them with an expression that George knew meant she was scheming. "You know, Jane," she said, smiling less apologetically now, "we were actually going to have lunch here once we were finished with the books. Would you like to join us?"

Jane beamed. "I'd love to! I mean, if you're okay with it," she added with a quick look at George.

George shrugged. Lunch with a pretty woman wasn't exactly one of the worst ways he could think of to spend an afternoon. "Sure."

"Wonderful," Anne said. "So, Jane, what brings you here today?"

George fell into step behind the two of them, sort-of-but-not-really listening to their conversation as Anne led them out of the bookstore and into the cafe area. They stopped at a corner table. "Here should be good," Anne said, draping her peacoat over the back of a chair and seating herself. George and Jane followed suit, and Anne examined the menu. "By the way, Jane, how's work?"

Jane sighed. "Irritating as always. Some people, I swear."

George sat forward, interested. "Oh, what do you do?"

"I work in advertising," Jane explained with a wry smile. "Lots of customer service, basically."

"I am so sorry," George said sincerely. "No one should have to deal with people all day."

"People are . . . complex," Jane said. She paused. "And dealing with them can really, really suck."

"Oh, he knows," Anne cut in, smirking. "George is in public relations."

Jane blinked. "Oh. Oh, wow. That sounds interesting."

"You'd think that, but no," George said. "So far, it's mostly been answering emails."

"And statistical analysis," Anne added. She nudged him. "Putting that political science degree to good use."

"Actually," George said, "it's a lot like customer service."

Jane looked surprised. "I . . . never thought of it that way."

"He'll do that to you," Anne said, sounding amused. George elbowed her, and she laughed.

Right then, a waiter arrived and they paused their conversation to order. When he'd departed, Anne stood abruptly, nearly knocking her peacoat off the back of her chair.

"Be right back," she told them, and left.

George watched her go for a moment, then looked back at Jane. She, however, was looking at the stack of books he'd piled in one corner of the table, neatly-manicured fingers drumming absently against the wood. A wave of blond hair fell forward across her brow.

Just when he thought he should probably say something, Jane looked up again, as if suddenly realizing how awkward it was for them to just sit there in silence. "Um, sorry," she said.

"For what?"

Apparently she wasn't sure either; she shrugged, brushing back her hair again. There was another pause. Just when George thought he should definitely say something, Jane asked, "Is that book any good?"

He looked down at the book on top of the stack. "No idea," he said honestly. "I've never read it before; I just picked it up because of the dragon on the cover."

Jane laughed. "That's fair. I'd do the same thing. Can I have a look at the back?"

"Go for it," he said, and slid the book across the table. She flipped it over and skimmed the text, then slid it back to him. He put a hand on it to reclaim it, but she kept her hand on it too.

"That looks really good," Jane said. "I might have to buy it. Tell me if it's shitty, okay?"

George raised his eyebrows. "You met me about five minutes ago; are you sure you trust my opinions on books?"

"Not entirely," Jane admitted. "But you seem trustworthy enough. You're related to Anne. And you have excellent taste."

"How do you know?" George asked, wondering what exactly she'd meant by that.

"The dragon," she explained.

"Ah."

He studied her for a moment, trying to decide if she was serious. "Well, if you really feel that way, I'll tell you what I think of it when I finish. Although I don't have your number."

"Easily solved," Jane said. "Give me your phone."

They'd just exchanged contact information when Anne finally returned, already picking up the conversation where they'd left off before she'd gotten up. "So," she said, before she'd even sat down again. "As I was saying . . ."

Lunch was delicious. George and Anne had both ordered paninis (which George felt a little guilty about, considering their family's Francophile tendencies) and Jane a salad, all of which were devoured. When it was over, Jane and Anne hugged goodbye and promised to see each other again while George packed up his books. He'd just placed the dragon book on top when Jane released Anne and turned to him. "Call me when you get home," she said.

"Um," George said, but Jane was already walking away. For a moment, George simply stood there watching her go. She had a graceful walk, as if she were gliding over the bookshop floor. Then he caught sight of Anne's expression. "Come on," he said, starting toward the bookstore checkout counter at a brisk walk, and Anne was forced to follow.

"So, what did you and Jane talk about while I was gone?" Anne asked as they joined the line.

George paused. "Not much," he said carefully. "Books, mostly. Why do you ask?"

His suspicions were confirmed when Anne shrugged and looked away, though not in time to hide her smile. "No reason, really. Just curious."

The people in front of them edged a little closer to the counter and George sighed. "The lengths to which you go so you can try and set me up with people are impressive and all, but you seriously need to lay off," he told her.

"I wasn't trying to set you up with Jane!" Anne protested. At his skeptical look, she added: "Well, not at first. I didn't _expect _her to be here today, but since she was, I . . . made the most of it."

She gave him the smile that had always gotten her out of trouble with their father. George shook his head, bemused. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Why, thank you," Anne said, with less sarcasm than might have been expected. "But hypothetically, if I _was_ trying to set you up with Jane - did it work?"

"Um." He really, _really _didn't want to tell her it sort of had - he'd gotten Jane's number, after all, even if they hadn't set up a formal date or anything. "Jane's - I mean, I - I liked her, but . . . no, not really."

Before Anne could question this version of events, George tossed her the book of sheet music. "By the way, I found this."

She caught the book easily and leafed through it, then look up at him. "For me?"

"No, for Dad. Of course for you. I thought you'd like it."

Anne tipped her head the side, thinking. "I don't know; I think it would be fun to try and teach Dad piano."

George laughed. As if on cue, they arrived at the front of the line.

Once outside, Anne stood on tiptoe to hug him, then pulled away again. "Thanks for today."

"_Et toi aussi_," he replied. "It was . . ."

"Enjoyable?" Anne offered.

"Something like that," George agreed. He ruffled her hair before she could duck out of his reach. "I'll text you."

"You better," Anne said with a smile.

When George arrived back at his apartment, however, the first person he thought to contact was Jane. He held off for an hour by distracting himself with some work he'd brought home, but finally he got bored of that and picked up his phone.

Jane answered on the third ring. "Hey! I was wondering when you'd call."

George grinned. "Good to know I got the right number."

"God, could you imagine if I somehow fucked up and gave you the wrong one?"

"A tragedy of epic proportions." He paused. "Although you could've just called me."

"Point taken. Thanks for calling me, in any case."

"No problem." He tried to think of something to say that hadn't been said over lunch and wouldn't sound too forced. 

"Have you started that book yet?"

George glanced toward the enormous pile of books now sitting by the foot of his bed. "No, I haven't. I'm trying to keep up the pretense that I'm a responsible adult."

"And how, pray tell, are you doing that?"

"Spreadsheets," George said. "Lots of spreadsheets."

"How's it working out for you?"

"Not well." George hesitated. "I was mostly thinking about calling you."

Something rustled on Jane's end, and she cleared her throat. "That's nice to hear," she said, sounding actually sincere. "Should we talk again later, or -?"

"Whatever's convenient."

"Great! I'll text you."

Whatever he did, he could not seem to stop smiling. "Cool."

"Cool."

She hung up. George looked at his phone for a moment, then decided to postpone work in favor of his newly-bought books.

***

Over the next week and a half, George texted Jane more than anyone else he knew, and she responded with equal enthusiasm. He even found himself messaging back and forth with her at work - though in all honestly, there wasn't much he wouldn't rather do than endlessly writing form emails and filling out spreadsheets. If talking to Jane hadn't given him some variety in his life, he probably would've gone insane.

They were talking about the possibilities of hypothetical vampire genetics (it made sense in context) when Jane brought up the possibility of their actually meeting up in person again.

"I'm free next weekend," she said. "Any chance you've finished that book?"

"Almost," George admitted. "It's kind of a doorstop." Not only did the book have about 12 billion pages, but the print was ridiculously dense. He'd seen larger fonts in academic research papers. "But that could work. Where should I meet you?"

Jane paused, thinking. "There's this French bakery I know downtown. I'll text you directions if you want."

"If you can't figure out my answer to that by now, you've clearly been talking to a body-snatched doppelganger of me for the past week and a half."

She laughed, a sound which George would probably never get tired of hearing. "Is that a yes, then?"

"Absolutely."

George spent most of the morning of their meetup puzzling over whether or not it counted as an actual date. The rest of the time he spent trying to figure out what to wear. Well, that and answering more work emails, putting the finishing touches on a paper, and flicking through Wikipedia pages about politics in Renaissance England. He was so busy with all this that he almost didn't notice when it was time for him to leave and had to make a headlong rush out the door.

Yet to his surprise and relief, Jane's directions turned out to be much easier to follow than Anne's. Even with traffic, George found the bakery with relative ease, though he still got honked at once or twice.

He spotted Jane right away after he'd parked (crookedly) next to the bakery. She was crossing the street, walking briskly toward the doors, but when she saw George standing at the curb, she turned and smiled at him. "Hey!" she said, a little breathlessly.

"Hey," he responded, returning her smile. "You look nice."

She did, wearing a gray scarf and a soft brown cardigan open over a blue shirt that brought out her eyes. Her blond hair was pulled back into a braid that hung down over one shoulder. "Nice" seemed too understated an adjective to describe her.

"Thanks." Her eyes flicked briefly over him. "You, too."

He'd always been susceptible to flattery. Stepping to one side, he motioned for her to enter. "After you."

The bakery was one of those little shops that managed to be cozy and modern at the same time. The walls were painted alternately sage green and stark white, and the whole place smelled like vanilla. Several artistic pastry displays were set up behind the counter, white tables were strewn about the burgundy floor, and a row of enormous windows gave everyone inside a perfect view of the street.

"Nice," George said, eyeing a large French flag hung up on one of the walls. "Do you come here often?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how they might be construed and winced. "Shit, sorry. That sounded like a bad pickup line."

She smirked. "Should I expect better ones?"

"Ouch." George laughed, partly out of relief, and they joined the line. "I like to think I could do better than that."

"How so?"

"Well, for example . . ."

They continued in that vein until they got to the front of the line. George was tempted to order _en francais _, but he decided that might confuse the cashier. They collected their food and set off to find a table.

"You're a coffee person?" George asked, with a look at Jane's drink.

She shrugged. "I like both. You?"

_Don't make a bi joke, don't make a bi joke_. "I prefer tea," he said. They reached the table, and he pulled out a chair for Jane.

"Thank you," Jane said, and sat. "Why tea?"

George smiled, taking a sip of his Earl Grey. "It's almost as caffeinated and it tastes better."

There was a pause. Then Jane laughed her splendid laugh, shaking her head. The ice in her cup rattled. "Agree to disagree on that one."

"If you like." George tore a piece off his croissant. "How's work?"

She made a face.

"That bad?"

"_People_," she said with a shudder. "But how are you? How's Anne? I haven't seen her since last week's ballet class."

"Anne's fine." He thought back to his last conversation with Anne and grinned. "Actually, she's great; she's thinking about getting a dog."

"Did she say why?"

"I believe her exact words were: 'After all the shit men have put me through, I'd rather have a dog than a boyfriend.'"

Jane put a hand to her mouth, smiling. "I can respect that from her. I should call her, ask her about that."

George continued to mutilate his croissant. "I'd rather have a cat, myself," he said eventually.

"Same." Jane sipped her coffee. "Have you finished your book?"

"I _have_," George said triumphantly. "And it wasn't shitty."

Sometime while they talked, snow began to fall outside, little white flakes that vanished as soon as they hit the ground. When George's teacup was empty, however, the snow was coming down thicker and thicker, and a solid inch of it had stuck. If it kept up much longer, it would be hard to drive home.

Jane must've had the same thought, because she drained the rest of her drink and said, "Well, we should probably say our farewells if we don't want to spend the night here."

George nodded. "Right. But, Jane - if you wanted -" he cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the table and wondering how exactly to phrase this. "Maybe we could go out for dinner next time?"

Jane sat forward, propping her elbows against the table. She tipped her head to the side, pretending to think, but the sparkle in her eyes was back and it was obvious she was fighting a smile. "George Boleyn, did you just ask me out?"

George forced back a smile of his own. "That depends," he told her.

"On what?"

"On whether you'll say yes."

She laughed again, then reached across the table and laced her fingers through his. George could no longer suppress his smile. "Then yes. Dinner sounds like a fabulous idea."

"Great."

He stood, and together, he and Jane left the bakery.

Almost immediately, snowflakes began to pepper George's body, stinging his exposed skin. Jane didn't look bothered, though; she turned toward him and took a step closer.

"Well," she said, "I'll see you for dinner."

"Absolutely." He was very aware of how near she was. He was very aware of the snowflakes caught in the dark fringe of her eyelashes. She blinked, dislodging some of them, and before he could think of something to say or do, Jane stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

It was a quick, close-mouthed kiss - just a peck, really - but it was enough to make every thought in George's head evaporate. Her skin was unexpectedly warm, her lips impossibly soft. She tasted like coffee.

Too soon, she pulled away. There was more snow in her hair now, but she didn't seem to have noticed; her face was flushed and she was beaming. Seeing her like that, George almost leaned down and kissed her again.

"See you," he said instead, and they parted.

***

The next day, George received a call from his father. In and of itself, this wasn't unusual; Thomas Boleyn loved nothing more than popping in to check on the daily lives of his children. What was unusual was the fact that the first words George heard when he picked up the phone were: "Who is Jane?"

George sighed. Honestly, it was like everyone in his family was allergic to small talk. "'_Bon apres-midi, _ my only son. _Comment ca va_?' How do you know about Jane?"

He could practically see his father's eye roll (it looked remarkably like Anne's). "Hello, nice to talk to you, your sister said something when she dropped by the house just now. You could stand to take a leaf out of her book, by the way; your mother and I hardly see you anymore. So who's Jane?"

_God dammit, Anne. _George sighed again, louder. "First of all, Dad, I saw you last week. And secondly, what did Anne tell you, exactly?"

"Not much." _Thank God for small miracles. _"Just that you and this Jane were . . . acquainted. So . . .?"

George hesitated, trying to come up with the least amount of information that would still satisfy his father. "Jane is . . . someone in Anne's ballet class, I went to this bakery with her yesterday, it's not a big deal - why are you so interested, anyway?"

"I'm your father; it's my right to demand information about your life. So it's a girl this time?"

It took all of George's willpower and diplomatic skill to keep himself from sighing a third time. "Yes, dad, a girl."

He mentally prepared his "bisexuality is a thing, Dad" speech (it had been nearly a month since he'd last had to use it - a new record), but his father didn't comment further. Instead, he abruptly switched to interrogating George about work. George didn't question it too much. Frankly, he was kind of relieved about the subject change.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're making progress," his father said at last. "Maybe I'll email your boss and -"

"_Please _ do not." He hadn't had to use the "nepotism is bad" speech in a while either.

"Just a thought, George."

"Uh huh. Tell Mom I said hi."

He hung up, then called Anne. "I'm never doing anything for you again," he said when she answered.

Anne gave an exaggerated sigh. Distantly, George heard pop music and muffled laughter. "Can you call back later? I'm trying to do my eyeliner and I can't do that if I'm talking to you."

George blinked. "If you're doing that, why'd you pick up in the first place?"

"Because you're my favorite only brother and I wanted to see if this was important before I hang up on you to go clubbing. So is this about what I said to Dad?"

George decided to ignore the rest of what she'd said. "Yes. He just called me and I had to fend off questions about my dating life for like, a minute and a half." He paused. "Although if he hadn't, it would've been kind of a tactical error for you to admit that."

Anne was silent for a moment, and he could hear the strains of "Toxic" by Britney Spears playing in the background. Then, "In my defense -"

"Oh, this should be good."

"_In my defense_," Anne repeated, "I didn't actually tell him anything."

"You literally just said -" George protested, but Anne talked over him.

"All I said was that she talked about you when she called me yesterday. Anything else was just Dad jumping to conclusions as usual."

George laughed. He couldn't help it. The idea of Jane thinking to mention him in conversation cheered him up so much, he almost couldn't be pissed at Anne anymore. "Alright, fine. I believe you."

"I'm glad," Anne said. There was another burst of laughter on her end, and a woman shouted something George couldn't make out. "In a minute, Meg!" Anne called. To George, she said: "Is that all you wanted?"

George thought for a moment. "Yeah, pretty much. Have fun."

"Okay, thanks! Bye!" Anne chirped, and hung up. 

When she'd gone, George stared at his phone for a bit. Then he texted Jane.

***

Jane wore red when George arrived in front of her apartment, a short-sleeved dress that hugged every curve of her body before flaring out at her hips, the color bright against her skin. She'd pinned a layer of hair into an elegant bun at the back of her head, while the rest flowed over her shoulder in silken waves. He almost couldn't believe she was here to go to dinner with him.

"_Bon soir_," she said, opening the passenger door and climbing in with a rustle of fabric.

George stared at her (not that it was easy to look away), surprised. "You speak French?"

"No," she said, "but you do."

He laughed. "Fair enough. Shall we?"

"We shall."

**Author's Note:**

> And then they lived happily ever after :)


End file.
